


Azaghâl Ugrûd

by Ephemeral16



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Afterlife, Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Fear, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral16/pseuds/Ephemeral16
Summary: Ugrûd. He knows it all too well. Thorin has feared many times throughout his life; has grown strong from it. He soon forgets how it feels to be without fear.The five times Thoring felt fear, and the one time he didn't.





	Azaghâl Ugrûd

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-posted story that was originally written for a Hobbit exchange. I went through a rough period and ended up deleting all my old works. But, here it is again. Edited by yours truly, so I am to blame for all the terrible mistakes. I am sorry for all the angst. If it helps, I'll be crying myself to sleep over this for quite some time.

Azaghâl  
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#### Ein

#### 

Death was inevitable-eventual, of that nearly all Middle Earth’s inhabitants could agree upon. Elves, of course, were not forced to endure and survive under the threat of such a fate; they did not succumb to disease, nor pass on from old age. Such was the blessing of the eldest children of Ilúvatar.

For elves, death lay on the battlefield- whether swift or slow- and for those who lost all will to live, rare as they were. It was both a reason for envy and awe amongst all other races. Though, of long years lived and how elves met their demise were not concerns in the forefront of Thorin’s mind. It was certainly an insult, to be witness to their arrogance and selfish intent. Even more so when his people had been in such desperate need of their aid. Thorin had waited, hoping, and scarcely breathing between the heavy beats of his heart, like iron, cold and heavy, pounding from inside the confines of his chest.

Thorin had experienced fear before, in the shadows of his father’s greed and insanity, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming course of emotions he felt as Thranduil had turned away, blind to the tall flames and thick clouds of smoke lapping at the sky, and deaf to the helpless cries of Thorin’s people- of Erebor’s demise. Fear, because his people, hungry and adrift, would be forced to face the dangers of the untamed world with little more than the clothes on their backs and scraps of the land and no place to call their own. And when the fear faded, with time and no other choice but to move on, Thorin’s heart latched swiftly onto anger- to boiling blood, trembling hands and white, hot fury.

The anger, unlike his fear, did not disappear. It faded to a small but steady presence, easy enough to overlook, but always –always- lingering, just beneath the surface. The resolve and strict dedication of Durin’s line could not be doubted, be it toward the tall piles of gold, the bright, gleaming Arkenstone, or the safety of Erebor’s people.  
  
Still, the memory of the elves, armed and in great numbers, turning heads and blind eye to Smaug’s wrath, reeled within Thorin’s subconscious thoughts. A seed of hate, unadulterated and sweltering, burned inside the pit of his belly, festering into something more potent- unforgivable.

As the memory of his people’s screams raged and echoed through the surrounding blaze of fire, fading out to dry tears and anguished sobbing, Thorin did not acknowledge his fear; it was not his right, nor did he have room for such a selfish emotion with weight of his people resting heavily on his shoulders.

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#### Taveir

#### 

Thorin dedicated every waking hour to hard labor and strong resolve. Kingdom or no, he was a leader by birth and if ever there was a time his people needed guidance and reassurance, it was now, in their hopeless travels and unending homesickness.

He did not acknowledge, nor consent to any small amount of fear, not even when his body ached with infinite, work-inflicted pain. Nor did he despair at the unconcealed apprehension and wavering confidence of his sister, Dis.

His sister sons, young and impressionable, were spared the longing that many of the dwarves bore. Erebor was no more than a bedtime story in a faraway land, all high pillars with finely crafted stone and steel, none of the ash and decay that lay in its former glory.

Though, they were not immune to the hunger- the want- that often went unanswered, and needs that could scarcely be met.

Often, Thorin heard quiet murmurs and reassurances made to the young princes, ones Dis no doubt thought she kept well hidden from him. Thorin heard them, though, the complaints of empty stomachs and sore feet. Of confusion and feelings of not belonging.

Again, Thorin felt it. Less potent, but there, nonetheless. Kíli and Fíli were all but his own sons, his flesh and his blood, his kin. Their hunger –their pain- was not unlike the remembrance of thick flames, still fresh behind his closed lids and in secluded moments. The inability to provide as heartily, as a prince should, on the meager earnings of his underpaid craft shattered Thorin’s pride and filled the vacant space inside him with disappointment.

With each moan of discomfort from Kíli, and all Fíli’s brave efforts to withstand it silently, Thorin grew more determined, urged through the long, gruesome days of work with purpose.

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#### Prir

#### 

It was not long, though it felt like ages, until Thorin was able to travel further for work, and the quality of his craft was more often acknowledged. More dwarrows traveled to the Blue Mountains in light of his success. They saw Thorin’s determinations for what it was; refusal to ignore the needs of his people- refusal to give up hope.  
  
Admiration and loyalty blossomed where once there was doubt.

Erebor was a burning memory, now pushed to the back of his mind- a small flicker of anticipation and rightful want for their home. Many felt the same, of that Thorin was sure, yet no word was spoken of the buried desires.

New confidence came with the unexpected arrival of Gandalf the Grey. Thorin did not trust the wizard, though he could not say why. Gandalf’s intentions were spoken truly, but not fully. Thorin found that, beneath the tempting proposal and Gandalf’s unusual offering to their cause, there was hidden intention and unspoken knowledge.

The rapture and impatience, much like a seed planted in Thorin’s head, blossomed into an intoxicating sensation that blinded him to the danger and possibility of failure.  
  
The gathering of his kin, where any aid to reclaim Erebor was refused and Thorin was looked upon with disapproval, did not abate his persistence in the slightest. The promise of coming home, of reclaiming the mountain after years of separation, kept Thorin’s resolve strong; a sturdy rock resisting the steady flow of its river. Their abandonment wounded his pride, if only slightly, but the hurt was short-lived, forgotten for the loyalty of a devoted few.

They were toy makers, miners, and cooks, with just a few practiced warriors amid their company, possessing neither the skill nor the experience to fight or defend. Most had never wielded an axe or sword, but the dwarves were strong in heart and mind, had proved themselves worthy of his confidence, time and time again, during their journey.  
  
Thorin did not fear what lay ahead with those so willing to follow, not until Gandalf insisted on bringing the burglar along- all soft skin and unreasonable concern for insignificant possessions. The hobbit belonged beneath the ground, within the familiar warmth of his hobbit hole, surrounded by the memories and trinkets he held so dear. Death was a sure end for the unseasoned halfling, and a burden of guilt Thorin was not willing to bear.

It was no surprise that the hobbit refused to accompany them on their journey, Thorin did not fault the being for it. Simply, some were not made for the perils of the vast wild. And so, he was more than surprised when, so soon after their departure, he turned toward a desperate shout, speechless above the halfling, panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat. There was little else to do, but scowl and continue on, refusing to acknowledge the the light flutter in his stomach, and eager, green eyes, shining bright in the memory of their beauty.

The halfling made it easy for Thorin to dislike him; his endless complaints of the Company’s shortcomings - the lack of handkerchiefs, of all things- were a blatant display of his weak, unwanted presence. And, as Thorin’s frustration with the useless being grew stronger, so did his burning curiosity- a constant stream of questions and thoughts, and bright green eyes.

So often Thorin’s gaze would linger, from across the fire, watching the halfling’s effortless smile and small, gentle fingers, clenching and unclenching around his wooden bowl, with a mix of unfamiliar emotions, maddening and satisfying all at once. It was not affection, or admiration; Thorin was not a stranger to either, but it felt different, somehow. Stronger, and similar, yet completely different from the fondness reserved for his kin. The uncertainty of thoughts turned Thorin’s mood sour. More so than usual.  
  
Naturally, the unexpected hostility was directed firmly towards the hobbit.

Bilbo took the insult in stride, tucked his chin to his chest and stiffened at the first signs of Thorin’s aggression. Thorin did not know whether it frustrated him more or less to have Bilbo so unresponsive, it was not unlike insulting a defenseless child, though Bilbo was no child, as he made clear many times over.  
  
Thorin could not remember when ‘halfling’ had been replaced by ‘Bilbo’ amid his musings, but never aloud.

Thorin reasoned that the unfamiliar fascination, of hobbits as a race and surely not Bilbo himself, was cause for his undue obsession. Fascination of the unfamiliar culture of their companion; of uncalloused hands, honey-brown curls, and calm acceptance; ofthe paleness of Bilbo’s bare skin beside Thorin’s dark, hair-dusted forearms, the flush of pink across his cheeks during the more arduous parts of their journey, even the point of his ears, so unlike that of the elves simply because they were Bilbo’s.

But, Bilbo was still weak, still useless and out-of-place among the company, still soft and gentle, and not meant to endure the hardships of life outside his cozy little hobbit hole.

It was more obvious with each passing day. Thorin’s obsession flourished with the heavy awareness of Bilbo’s inevitable death, slow-coming, but unavoidable, all the same. It worsened, still, when the panic of nearly losing his nephews to a clash of stones along the mountain side, left him hollow and trembling, but relieved, as he made headcount.  
  
Then counted again, only to find a member of their company missing. The relief of finding both Fili and Kili alive and unharmed bled into fear, his gaze shifting frantically in search of the small, defenseless hobbit. Silence was broken only by the remnant chips of stone tumbling from the cliffs while his quiet panic intensified.

Bofur and Ori dove forward, reaching wildly over the cliff’s edge. Thorin followed their motion keenly, just barely able to make out the pale flesh of Bilbo’s fingers, clenched tightly to a jagged ledge, bone white under the strain of his weight. But, the haste of Bofur and Ori’s movements- of rough hands and anxious grappling- proved too much for the gentle creature, and Thorin was forced to watch, horror settling in the pit of his stomach, as Bilbo’s hand disappeared. There was not a note of hesitation before Thorin was rushing forward, falling into the darkness, so willingly, with no concern for his own safety- only for blue eyes, soft skin and the melodic voice echoing through his mind.  
  
Even when their burglar was safe, albeit drenched from the rain and visibly shaking, pressed between Bofur and Dwalin’s solid forms, Thorin felt his fear stretch to impossible lengths. Death had come so close to stealing Bilbo away, an admission that set fire to the blood pulsing in Thorin’s veins and filled him with undiluted rage.

His fingers trembled with the memory of Bilbo tucked helplessly under his arm while they dangled from the cliff’s edge. Still anxious and unsure, Thorin lashed out, spitting venom and disapproval in every word he spoke, though surely not to cover the cracking of his voice, nor the crack of his confidence, rather, because his words were true.  
  
The burglar was nothing but a burden. To his heart and his sanity.

Bilbo did not belong with them. He belonged back within the borders of the shire- safe and sound beneath the ground and before his hearth.

Bilbo would not survive the wild. Thorin feared the truth of it like no other.

Fear, Thorin knew. Quite well, in fact, and it was not a welcome presence. In turn, neither was Bilbo’s.

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#### Fjhornir

#### 

Thorin remembered Bilbo’s words upon entering Mirkwood. He remembered the gentle hesitance of his voice, as if it had not been his intention to speak the words aloud. Thorin could not have agreed more. From the first crack of dry leaves and broken path, crumbling beneath his boots, pushing past an unseen wall of foul magic and dark disease, he knew the Hobbit was right- felt it, deep within his bones. The repugnant air had filled their lungs with uninhibited fervor, bringing forth a cloud of confusion and agitation over the company.

Bilbo, though a great deal more twitchy and unsettled than Thorin had ever been witness to, seemed least affected by the forest’s poison. He could only hope that had counted for something- that Bilbo had escaped the spiders with his silent steps and easily concealed presence.

The same could not be said for the rest of the company, and Thorin wished, beyond the desire to claim his home and call upon his kin again, that he only knew what had become of them. Whether they were dead, or alive, was impossible to discern, and with days upon days of nothing to do but wait and wonder, and fear behind the thick, unbreakable bars of an elvish cell, Thorin was nearly driven mad with the unknown.

He dare not call upon Thranduil for answer, not when there existed a small chance that his company had survived and managed to elude imprisonment. So, he waited, and wondered and feared far greater than ever before.

It was Bilbo, again, who came to their aid.

It was Bilbo who provoked strength and reassurance, and most of all, hope, in the forlorn corners of his heart and of his mind.

Bilbo, who whispered blessed encouragement of the company’s lasting endurance, despite their inability to escape the elves. Like balm to a sore, festering wound, Bilbo spoke of the company’s health and unhindered spirit- accepting Thorin’s large, calloused hands as they reached out, lingering over his shoulders and down his arms.

Then, with confidence and unnamed emotions, born from his own failures and the Hobbit’s unexpected arrival, pulled Bilbo roughly against the cell door. It was hard and uncomfortable, an awkward twist of limbs that poked in all the wrong places and wasn’t quite close enough, but the warmth of Bilbo’s body, wrapped fast within his arms and pressed through the empty spaces between bars, felt more intoxicating, more right than a lifetime of memories before the dragon fire.

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#### Fimm

#### 

“I will not risk this quest for the life of one,” of Bilbo, of their Hobbit, of his burglar, “Burglar.”

The words felt sour as they swept over his tongue- out of place and entirely untrue, for he would have sacrificed it all; his home and throne, even the Arkenstone, if it meant keeping Bilbo safe- allowed him to live the quiet, peaceful life he more than deserved. But the mountain was laden with selfish influence- thick with desire and longing, not unlike the malevolence of Mirkwood.

Thorin could sense the change within himself, and did naught to stop it, too alarmed by his own intent to send Bilbo into the mountain, alone and powerless against the wrath of Smaug.

Fear took hold of his heart, heavy and unbreakable, each time worse still, but none so bad at this; a pain deeper than the swing of an axe or a sword pierced through flesh. This was the pain and betrayal of his own doing, of which it’s consequences would leave no one, but himself, to blame. Not the dragon, nor the lust for gold.  
  
Thorin may as well have raised his own sword against the Hobbit, cut his head from his shoulders in payment of his loyalty. Such would have been an act of mercy in place of a dragon’s fire and fury.

Balin spoke, resolute and completely unaffected by the mountain’s call, with clarity and in defense of Bilbo, his name was Bilbo. Not burglar or halfling, or the Hobbit. Thorin recalled the very moment he became someone of importance- someone worth Thorin’s protection and devotion, someone worth his affection.  
  
Thorin swallowed, thick and hollow, around the lump of guilt within his throat, one hand gripped tight to the hilt of his sword while the other rubbed shakily over his head, fighting off the haze of doubt and apathetic thoughts.

It was the dragon’s roar; not just a sound, but an onslaught of thunder, of quivers through the mountain and vibrations across his body. The ear-splitting reverberation lasted naught a moment, maybe two, and as it faded into smoke and fire, Thorin was already running, the smell of destruction stinging his nose and the sharp point of fear biting at his heels.

Fear of himself, of his devastation and ignorance.

Still, Thorin feared, and still, the fear grew worse.

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#### +Ein

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It is said that, with time, all must come to an end.  
  
Every moment, every emotion must cease to exist. Some endings are earth-shattering and heart pounding moments of great significance, ones that stay with us for a lifetime, and continue on in the minds and bodies of those we leave behind. Some are simple and fleeting, just a passing of time that one can hardly recall, even with the greatest effort.

Thorin wonders on the importance of this moment, what meaning it will leave behind, what stories and songs with rise from the ash of his own demise.  
  
There were flashes of pain, of disappointment and regret so great, and little time to make amends. For death would not slow, would not gift Thorin the time for proper apologies, nor a show of unending remorse. His caustic deeds run too deep and too wide for hope of forgiveness, but he receives it nonetheless.  
  
“I do not deserve your friendship, nor your pardon.” It burns and scratches in the most unpleasant of ways, but it must be done. To lose his last words with his hobbit, with his Bilbo, would be an unimaginable crime, one that would haunt his days in the halls of his ancestors.

“Yet, you have it, all the same.”

Bilbo touches his cheek, tender and careful with small hands and pure intentions. The touch is scarce, quite near indiscernible, atop the swath of dressings and thick bandages, but he presses no harder, just hovering over Thorin’s face with gentle affection.

“What I would give to live eternally, with you by my side.” Thorin would offer his life, but it meant little now, when his heart beat so slow, slower with each passing moment, and the dressings pressed wet and heavy around his body.

Thorin watches the tears fall free from Bilbo’s eyes, and chases the salty trail with his trembling fingers. Then, Bilbo’s hand is cupped desperately over his own, holding Thorin’s palm to the cold and blistered skin of his cheek. He is scared, beyond measure, such is written so plainly on Bilbo’s face for Thorin to see, and Thorin knows that fear, understands the ache of despair.

“Do no fear, little one. This is not the end for you. We shall meet again, in another life.” His voice is broken and hoarse and Bilbo cries harder still, his body hunched under the weight of his misery.

“What I fear most is not death, it is living in a world where you do not. I cannot bear it.”

Thorin fingers the soft, golden curls of Bilbo’s hair, ignoring the dirt and dried blood as it breaks off beneath his touch. Kili and Fili are gone, saved from the pain and the suffering of this world, and Bilbo is here, wounded and grieving for a dead dwarf still breathing, but sheltered by the remaining strength of Thorin’s embrace.

For once, Thorin knows a feeling free of trepidation. He does not wonder on what could have been, or choices made that cannot be changed. He remembers a life full of mistakes and regret, and the first taste of love taken far too soon to fully understand it’s depths.

He feels so many things, too many to number and too unfamiliar to name, but most of all and most important is what Thorin does not feel, as he looks up to the roof of his tent, watches it flap helplessly in the wind, and continues to rub weak, but sure, circles over One’s back.

Thorin no longer feels fear.


End file.
